


fumble through the fog

by gealbhan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comedy, Crack Treated Seriously, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Friendship, Gen, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Psychological Warfare, okay not completely. angst crept up on me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21562192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: “Say,” says Hilda, dropping into the seat across from Hubert in the library, “what do you think about Ferdinand’s hair? Because I’ve never really looked at it, but it’s grown out enough that you could touch it and brush it and stuff now, right? Do you ever think about things like that? I definitely do. Hoo boy, the thoughts I’ve had about homoerotically braiding Marianne’s hair—”Without a single word, Hubert slams his book shut, tucks it under his arm, and walks away.Hilda joins the Black Eagle Strike Force and proceeds to make Hubert’s life a living hell.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Hilda Valentine Goneril & Hubert von Vestra, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Comments: 45
Kudos: 1069





	fumble through the fog

**Author's Note:**

> operation: cf hilda and hilda & hubert friendship is now in effect. this was another concept i tweeted about and then couldn't get off of my mind. title is from "rain in soho" by the mountain goats and is therefore way too serious for this, but i couldn't resist. enjoy!

A long time ago, the professor had come to Hilda and asked her to join the Black Eagles. Hilda had laughed and gone right back to painting her nails. Though she appreciated the reminder that everyone loved her, she was very happy where she was, thanks very much.

Then—

Then, everything goes pear-shaped, and, well, the next thing Hilda knows, she’s being sent right back to Garreg Mach as a peace offering to the Empire.

It’s not _so_ bad, she supposes. Despite Claude’s firm neutrality, if she’s sneaky about it, she can still send letters to him as long as they don’t contain anything the Leicester Alliance or Almyra could use against the Empire. His return letters are some of the only comedic relief Hilda gets in these trying times.

And Marianne is there at Garreg Mach, having been swayed by the professor long ago. Oh, but Hilda isn’t playing favorites, not at all—most of the former Golden Deer are there, so it feels a little like a mini-reunion even before the professor returns from, as near as Hilda can tell, a five-year-long nap. Which, honestly? Hilda wishes _she_ could do that. So she’d be dead to the world, but so what? It’d be a refreshing change of pace to the grueling five-odd hours of beauty sleep she gets on average now. Maybe the war would be won then and she could go home without even putting in any effort.

As one might be able to guess from this insatiable desire, Hilda is bored. Soul-crushingly so. Sometimes she thinks about burning matches down to her fingertips to feel something. (She never does, because that would fuck up her nails like nobody’s business, but it’s the thought that counts.)

So, of course, she decides to occupy herself by making Hubert’s life a living hell.

*

Hubert is her target for a number of reasons, the simplest of which are these: He’s got a stick up his ass, so he’s fun to mock. He steers as clear of Hilda as possible, making it a challenge. And it would be fun, if nothing else, to crack that obsidian-finish exterior of his.

Of course, the professor is Hilda’s unwitting accomplice. Always putting the most ornery of comrades in arms together to complete chores. Usually, Hilda takes the opportunity to foist all of her work onto someone else (unless she’s working with Marianne), but Hubert is too clever for most of her schemes, and she gets the much better chance to fuck with him by whatever other means are necessary.

“So, like, what’s the point of all of this?” she says when the two of them are set to work clearing rubble.

“All of what?” Snark bleeds from every word, few as they are.

“I mean, I meant this—” Hilda kicks at a pile of Goddess-knows-what “—but now that I think about it, what’s the point of any of it, y’know? This whole war thing.”

Hubert narrows his eyes. “This whole war thing,” he echoes. “I do not, in fact, know, and I don’t wish for you to elaborate. We are supposed to be working.” He eyes her static posture, very clearly _not_ working.

“I sprained my ankle,” lies Hilda.

“No, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. It was my wrist.”

Already, angry veins are pulsing all across Hubert’s face. Hilda mentally pats herself on the back—she’d known it would be easy to rile him up, but she hadn’t thought it would be _this_ easy.

“See?” she says, flopping her wrist all about. “It hurts so bad. Oh, but don’t worry, I can walk myself to the infirmary—”

“Stop.” Hilda does, not even having started walking in the first place. “We will be completing the work the professor assigned us, and we will be doing it in a timely manner. I have better things to do with my time than deal with your… shenanigans.”

Hilda can’t help but ask, “Do you? Because it seems like all you do with your time is suck up to Her Majesty.”

For a second, Hilda thinks Hubert is going to punch her (or, knowing him, cast Miasma on her or stab her with a poison-tipped blade strapped to his thigh. Something less physical but more macabre like that. Hilda, for one, will opt for a good swing of Freikugel). Then he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

“On second thought,” he says, “ _we_ are not going to be clearing this rubble.” For a moment, Hilda rejoices, already thinking about what she can do this week instead, and then, with a smile that Hilda should have known was too good to be true, Hubert says, “ _You_ are.”

“What?! Why?”

“Because you’re the one deliberately provoking me, and therefore you should be the one to answer for it.” Hubert folds his arms. “And you’re much more capable of this task than I.”

“That’s not true,” says Hilda in a last fit of desperation. “I’m, like, a foot shorter than you! I don’t even go up to your shoulder!”

“I’m the same height as Lorenz, whom I once witnessed you carry over your shoulder like a basket of fish.”

Hilda would object to the phrasing, because she would think fish would be pretty heavy, but she’s seen the professor do that exact thing like it was nothing. “That wasn’t me.”

Hubert casts his eyes skyward. “No? Who else has bright pink hair and wears disturbingly low-cut sleeveless tops that show off a supposedly nonexistent amount of muscle?”

“What, you think I dress provocatively?” says Hilda, clapping a hand to her chest, which, yes, is exposed the tiniest bit. A flirty amount of cleavage is fundamental to every outfit worn by House Goneril. “And I’ll have you know that describes my brother to the letter too. So maybe you saw Holst.”

“I’m not having this argument with you,” says Hubert with finality. “You are more than capable of completing this task on your own, so I shall leave you to it.”

 _I’ll get you for this one, Hubert von Vestra,_ she thinks, making the _I’m watching you_ gesture at his back and hoping he feels the prongs of her nails jabbing into him somehow.

*

To her displeasure, she doesn’t get the chance to get him for it anytime soon. He commends her work when they have to report to the professor—if he hadn’t had to add a passive-aggressive _good work… for you_ at the end, Hilda might have let it go, but alas.

So she continues looking for opportunities to trip him up. Meanwhile, she spends her leisure time—since, satisfied, the professor has freed her of further chores for the time being—bothering everyone else. Marianne is Hilda’s closest friend here and not mean to Hilda besides, unlike some people, so she gets the bulk of Hilda’s attention, and she doesn’t seem to mind it as much as she had years ago, so it works well for both of them.

Hilda is stepping toward the stables to find her when she hears laughter. This, on its own, wouldn’t be so odd—while it’s not as common an occurrence as it had been years ago, people still sneak into this area for ill-advised trysts more often than Hilda likes to think about.

But it’s _Marianne’s_ laughter. Hilda would recognize that adorable sound from miles away. It’s a rare thing to hear, and Hilda knows (hopes) this one isn’t born of a roll in the hay (get it, because horses?). No way Marianne would expose the horses to something like that. No way she would even think about doing so.

…She wouldn’t, right? Hilda isn’t one for self-doubt, but she slows her approach nonetheless, ready to shield her eyes and run to the dining hall to drown her feelings in some sweets if necessary—

But to her relief, what she sees around the corner isn’t Marianne getting down and dirty with another Imperial soldier or nameless stable boy. (Hilda isn’t sure which hypothetical would be more painful. Best not think about it too hard.)

It’s worse.

Marianne is giggling because she’s talking to Ferdinand, who’s standing on the opposite side of a horse—Dorte, Hilda thinks, but who can really tell the difference? (Marianne can, and Hilda supposes Ferdinand can too, because she always hears him talking to a different one.) From where she’s standing, Hilda can’t see Marianne’s face, but she can see Ferdinand’s smile. It could light the world better than the sun does, and the dimples only add to the effect.

Goddess, he looks like a fairytale prince. Hilda can picture it now in her mind’s eye: Ferdinand as a handsome magical prince atop a white steed, much like the one he’s turning to stroke the snout of now, hair and sun-kissed skin glowing as he extends a hand to a bashful Marianne and tells her he can show her the world, shining, shimmering, splendid—

Nope, her thoughts are not going there. Nope! Hilda refuses to acknowledge that train of thought. She decides she can’t expose herself to this anymore, however innocent, and turns on her heel to storm off as quietly as possible.

Before she leaves, though, Hilda notices one thing: A minute shift in the shadows, a form large enough that she spots it out of the corners of her eyes and isn’t convinced that had been her imagination.

How interesting.

*

“So.” Hilda slides into the seat across from Hubert in the dining hall as easily as if she’d been invited. Which, of course, she hadn’t. “How long?”

Hubert glances up at her with a frown. He isn’t even eating anything, only perusing a thick stack of paperwork. So _boring_. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he says through his teeth. “Now, if you please, leave me to my work.”

“Hmmmmm…” Hilda draws it out as long as she can to make it seem like she’s really thinking about it. “Nope! I want to talk to you, Hubie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? Dorothea does.”

A muscle in Hubert’s jaw twitches. “To point out the obvious: You are not Dorothea. Go.”

Hilda does not go. Hilda stays right where she is and begins chowing down. She hasn’t been a growing girl for some time, but that doesn’t mean she’s not going to gorge herself whenever possible. Who knows how long supplies could last, after all?

She licks crumbs off of fingers as loudly as she can and watches Hubert white-knuckle his quill. “So,” says Hilda again, mouth half-full, “I caught you leaving the stables the other day. In quite the hurry, too, as surreptitious as you were trying to be. I wonder what made you so upset that you let yourself be seen? By _me_ , at that?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean to say,” says Hubert, but he’s gone a shade paler than usual.

“Oh, cut the bullshit.” Hilda flicks food off of her finger—she can’t ruin her manicure, the paint on one nail is already peeling because of the “totally safe” supply run she went on yesterday—and leans forward. “I wonder which one you were so upset about seeing. I hope it wasn’t Marianne.”

Too late, she realizes she’s provided ammunition to Hubert’s arsenal. Hubert’s eyebrow arches, and he, too, leans closer. “Oh? Were you upset to see Marianne enjoying herself without you? How interesting.”

“If you must know, I want to keep you as far away from sweet, delicate Marianne as possible,” retorts Hilda, which isn’t untrue.

“Are you worried I would corrupt her? Perhaps I ought to be more friendly, then.”

It would be too much effort to punch Hubert in his stupid smarmy smirk—and annoying to explain to Manuela besides—so Hilda just folds her arms and sits back. “Deflect all you want. Why were you snooping on Ferdinand, you snoop?”

Hubert stops writing for a split second. It’s all Hilda needs.

“So you were!” she declares, clapping both hands on the tabletop and disturbing her plate in the process. She straightens everything back up with a ditzy smile. “Aww, big scary Marquis Vestra has real feelings. Who would have thought?”

“I assure you it is nothing of the sort,” says Hubert, lip curling back. “I simply like to keep an eye on the members of our army.”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ you do.” Hilda wiggles her eyebrows. Hubert looks vaguely disgusted, but hey, he’s the one who’s admitting to, like, stalking people here. Hilda isn’t the weird one, okay? “I bet you’re all up in everybody’s business like that. Even mine, right?”

“No. You are the rare exception, if only because I’m concerned about what I might possibly learn from studying you any further than I already have.”

“Your loss,” says Hilda, batting her eyelashes. Then her expression sobers, because she _does_ want to have a conversation with Hubert. “Okay. On a more serious note—”

“I didn’t know you were capable of speaking seriously.”

Hilda sticks her tongue out but otherwise ignores him. “I know what it’s like,” she says in a lower—both pitch- and volume-wise—voice. “So, you know, if you ever wanna, like, chat.”

“Thanks for the oh-so-kind offer.” Hubert grimaces and stacks up his paperwork. “I will not be taking you up on it. I have paperwork to complete, in fact, so I will be taking my leave now.”

On that note, he stands and heads for the exit at a cowardly fast pace.

“Fine, run away like a bitch! But I know where you sleep!” yells Hilda. A few other people in the dining hall give her weird looks. Hilda revels in it. At a mumble, she muses, “ _If_ you sleep. You probably don’t, you fucking weird wannabe vampire of a man.”

Hubert is already gone. Hilda shrugs and returns to her meal.

*

Her one attempt at genuine commiseration is, by all accounts, an utter failure.

“Say,” says Hilda, dropping into the seat across from Hubert in the library, “what do you think about Ferdinand’s hair? Because I’ve never really looked at it, but it’s grown out enough that you could touch it and brush it and stuff now, right? Do you ever think about things like that? I definitely do. Hoo boy, the thoughts I’ve had about homoerotically braiding Marianne’s hair—”

Without a single word, Hubert slams his book shut, tucks it under his arm, and walks away.

Well, no one can say Hilda hadn’t tried the easy way.

*

So, of course, she turns to mischief and chaos. One can take the girl out of the Golden Deer, but they can’t take the Golden Deer out of the girl.

Hilda doesn’t have a real plan of attack; she’ll make it up as she goes along, she figures. The professor takes her and Hubert off of rubble duty, but she figures it’s only a matter of time before they get put up to some other menial task. In the meantime, all it takes is a little chat with Edelgard—who doesn’t seem to _dislike_ Hilda, if only because no one can, but is definitely wary of her (reasonable, but still hurtful)—for Hilda to finagle the deets of Hubert’s schedule.

From there, it’s easy enough to figure out something. For one, Hubert has a scheduled weekly tea time with Ferdinand, like a gross old married couple. (Hilda does not think about the fact that Marianne had asked if they could make having tea together a regular thing last week.)

It’s easy enough to swing by the gazebo to interrupt that, and Hilda does.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she drawls, innocent as all that.

Hubert, in the middle of raising his cup of coffee to his lips, gives her a look like he wants to strangle her, which he should know by now only adds fuel to the fire. Across from him, Ferdinand is none the wiser and stands with dignity.

“Nothing of the sort,” he says evenly. “It is good to see you, Hilda. What may I—or rather, we—” he nods toward Hubert “—assist you with?”

“I want no part in this,” says Hubert.

Hilda ignores him. “Well, I was wondering if you would mind helping me with an itsy-bitsy little something, Ferdinand? It’ll take no time at all, I swear.” Her fingers are crossed behind her back, but no one needs to know that.

“Ah—well—” Ferdinand glances over his shoulder. With an expression suggesting he’s in physical pain, which Ferdinand is of course oblivious to, Hubert waves a hand and goes back to drinking his coffee with as much fervency as though it were alcoholic. With a somewhat more confident smile, Ferdinand turns back to Hilda. “I would be happy to assist.”

“Thank you sooo much,” says Hilda, batting her eyelashes. “I really appreciate it. Shall we?”

Behind Ferdinand, Hubert draws his index finger across his throat very slowly. Hilda blows him a kiss when Ferdinand isn’t looking.

*

Hubert’s revenge, coming so much later that Hilda deludes herself into thinking he’s forgotten, is to sweep into the greenhouse while Hilda and Marianne are on plant duty. The professor hadn’t exactly asked them, but Marianne had mentioned checking in on the flowers, and it had been easy for Hilda to go along. More efficient, she’ll say, though if it had been anyone else she’d have gone back to her room.

But, as soon as Hilda has spotted a prime opportunity for their hands to brush on “accident,” the doors fling open with a mighty _bang_. Marianne jolts at the sound. Even if it weren’t for the interruption, Hilda would be turning a furious gaze upon the latest entrant for that slight alone.

When her eyes fall on Hubert, the shadow of his cape falling over the entire greenhouse, Hilda’s rage only intensifies. Marianne, too, seems startled. She starts to excuse herself, but Hubert holds up a hand.

“No need for that, Lady Edmund,” he says. “I’m only here for Lady Goneril.”

Hilda has never heard him address her with that title in front of her, only via casual eavesdropping, but the surprise doesn’t stop her from hissing, _“What,”_ through her teeth.

“The professor has sent for you,” says Hubert, hand on his chest in a mocking bow. From the smug look on his face, there’s no way his timing is accidental, much like the no-longer-potential brush of Hilda and Marianne’s hands. So the bastard _has_ been spying on her. “Your participation in an axe tournament has been requested.”

“I’m busy.” Hilda flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Get Edelgard to do it.”

“ _Her Majesty_ , as you will address her,” corrects Hubert, and at least she’s won some ire from him, though she can’t appreciate it now, “is occupied with much more important things than gardening.”

“Caspar, then,” suggests Hilda. “Or, hell, the professor is rather skilled with an axe, aren’t they?”

“The professor doesn’t participate in these tournaments, as you should well know. Caspar—” Hubert shakes his head with a grimace. “He is recovering from a particularly nasty scrape in our last battle—a Demonic Beast bite, as you may recall.”

Hilda does not recall. “Why does the professor need to run someone through a tournament, anyway? Why not just have five meals in a row like I saw them do last week or some shit like that?”

“ _Miss_ Goneril,” says Hubert, and oh, that is _it_ , “I hope you understand that I have received a direct order from one of two people in this world I am utterly and completely loyal to.”

“Really? There aren’t three?”

Hubert pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you coming with me or not?”

Pros of listening to Hubert: The professor is pleased because they get some more gold, Hubert doesn’t kill Hilda in her sleep (or at least, the chances are significantly lowered), and Hilda gets some axe practice in; she could also lose, which would give her an excuse to not do anything for at least another week. Con: She won’t get a few more precious, precious moments with Marianne.

These are about equal weights on the twisted seesaw that is Hilda’s mind. Hilda glances at Marianne, who only gives her an encouraging grin.

Con of staying: It might disappoint Marianne.

Faced with this horrific consequence, Hilda sucks it up and says, “Fine,” but she at least stomps her foot a little as she does. “Sorry, Marianne. I’ll be back later to help you out, okay?”

Marianne flashes her a small but adorable smile. “It’s okay, Hilda,” she says. “I think I can handle this on my own. But thank you for your help so far—I, um, really appreciate it. Good luck in the tournament!”

Hilda holds herself back from yelling swears at Hubert, who’s tapping his wrist impatiently, and offers, instead, her softest grin to Marianne. “Thanks! Glad someone on this bitch of an earth appreciates me,” she mutters under her breath.

“What was that?” says Hubert.

“Nothing.” Hilda gives him a _go die_ look but covers it with an insipid smile when Marianne glances back over. “Show me to the training grounds, will you? A delicate lady like myself can’t make it there on my own.”

She spends the entire walk plotting her revenge. Hubert ignores her occasional evil giggles, which is disappointing because the only reason she does it is to further creep him out.

She wins the tournament, and she’ll say to her deathbed that it had been because she’d been picturing all of her opponents as much more muscular Huberts, which is an image that will haunt her nightmares. (Jury is out on whether it’s a step up or down from visions of her friends dying.)

*

In retaliation, Hilda bangs on the table apropos of nothing in their next meeting as the Black Eagle Strike Force (which is still one of the tackiest names she’s ever heard). Linhardt doesn’t so much as stir, but almost everyone else glances her way.

“We need to commit more war crimes,” proclaims Hilda.

Edelgard looks at her with no shortage of disgust. “I agree that we must turn the tide of this war in our favor by whatever means necessary,” she says, halting, “but actively striving to commit as many war crimes as possible is hardly—”

“You needn’t worry yourself with the particulars, Lady Edelgard.” Hubert lays one hand on his chest and bows as best he can while seated. “It is rare to hear Hilda advocate for something so fervently. If she wishes to contribute more to the war effort, no matter how inadvisable her methods may be, I say we allow her to.”

Horror dawns. “Wait. That’s not—”

“No?” Hubert turns to her, and of course, that sets off a tidal wave of every other head in the room twisting toward Hilda. She wants attention, but not like this. _Not like this_. “Why, I daresay you outright volunteered.”

All right. Two can play at this game, buster. Hilda, stewing with rage, collects herself by interlocking her fingers and tapping her nails against her skin.

“Sure, I’ll start going on patrol more often,” she says. “But I want Ferdinand to go with me.” It’s a perfect request—not only will it get to Hubert, but Ferdinand is off on another mission and therefore is unable to protest on his own behalf. If he comes back to it being an order, he’ll no doubt oblige. Anything else would hurt his noble pride.

“That hardly seems efficient,” says Hubert without pause. But there’s a bead of sweat on his forehead, so Hilda knows she’s making headway. “For one, Ferdinand is part of the cavalry. You would be on foot, meaning you would slow him down were you two to patrol together.”

“I can ride a horse,” argues Hilda. “Right, Marianne? You’ve been on stable duty with me!”

Marianne jolts at being put on the spot, which, okay, Hilda feels a little bad about, but isn’t everyone in this room all about necessary sacrifices? “Um—yes, you’re quite skilled,” she mumbles.

“See,” says Hilda, beaming. “Marianne thinks I’m _quite skilled_.”

Hubert opens and then shuts his mouth—probably to say something rude about Marianne before realizing even he couldn’t. Hilda smiles and mimes sealing her own lips shut and throwing away the key. Hubert’s hand curls into a fist on the table.

Edelgard looks between them. She must know what the source of their recent tensions aside from the simple clashing of conflicting personalities—she’s closer to Hubert than anyone, by far, and Hilda makes no secret of the placement of her own affections.

But if she does, she says nothing of it, only nodding. “Surely we can arrange for a horse for Hilda, if that’s the only barrier. We’ve no shortage of them, after all.”

“You can ride Dorte, if you’d like,” offers Marianne, and Hilda’s grin carries her through the rest of the day.

*

After she and Ferdinand are called to choir practice together—of the professor’s own volition, Hilda swears—Hilda walks into the cathedral one night to find Hubert and Marianne praying side-by-side. If it were Marianne on her own, it would be poetic. The perfect subject material for one of Ignatz’s paintings. A devout believer in the Church of Seiros going against it but finding the time in the midst of a bloody war to pray to a broken altar, silhouetted by the light of the moon streaming in through the shattered windows.

But Hubert being there ruins the illusion entirely. His hands are clasped behind his back rather than before him like Marianne’s. Marianne is either unaware of his presence or fine with him standing beside her and not even praying. Which is sort of what this place is made for.

Hubert, of course, because he is the way he is, hears Hilda’s heels on the floor of the cathedral and turns toward her. “Ah,” he says, raising his eyebrows. He can’t hide his smirk. Hilda would love to sock him in it just once. “Good evening, Hilda.”

Marianne turns almost at once—a smile breaks across her face when she sees Hilda. “Oh, hello,” she says. “Are you here to pray as well?”

“Something like that,” says Hilda.

“Well, I was just heading out, but I wish you all the best.” Marianne bows. Her eyes dart to Hubert out of the corners of her eyes, and she turns to him with—Hilda notes with satisfaction—a diminished smile. “Goodnight, Hubert. Thank you for joining me.”

Hubert raises a hand in farewell. Once Marianne has left the cathedral and can no longer be within earshot, Hilda rounds on him.

“How dare you, taking advantage of sweet Marianne’s hospitality like that?” she snaps. “You don’t even believe in the Goddess.”

“ _I_ never said I was here to pray. That was your lie of choice,” says Hubert, tilting his head. “I was simply here to provide Lady Edmund some company—and protection. There are dangerous folks among our ranks, you know.”

“Including you and your precious emperor.” Hilda means for it to be a question, honest, but it doesn’t quite come out that way—whatever. It works as an accusation too.

Hubert’s expression hardens the slightest bit. “Say all you wish about me—the Goddess knows much of it is true—but I ask that you leave Her Majesty’s name out of it.”

“Fine, fine.” Hilda rolls her eyes. “You’re more fun to make fun of, anyway.”

They stand in silence for a moment, Hilda rubbing her arms as the brisk air flows into the open cathedral. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to storm out here in her regular clothes after all. She eyes Hubert’s cloak out of the corners of her eyes. It’s ugly as sin— _so_ not her style—but it does look rather warm.

“Say, Hubert,” she says.

Immediately, his expression turns to dread. “Yes?”

“Sheesh, I didn’t even ask anything yet!” Hilda folds her arms with a _hmph_ and taps her foot, producing a satisfying clicking sound that echoes throughout the entire room. For all of her misgivings about the cathedral, the acoustics are amazing. “If I stop bugging you for a week and give it back at my earliest convenience, will you let me borrow your cloak?”

Hubert’s eye twitches, but he shifts to the side with his arms crossed, interest piqued. “Define ‘bugging.’”

“Every interaction I’ve had with you since we’ve been on the same side,” says Hilda.

There’s a long pause, and then Hubert slides his cloak off of his own shoulders and places it around hers. Given the height difference between them, Hilda feels like she’s swimming in it. It’s still ugly, and a good fifth of it is pooling onto the floor, but Hilda feels swathed in as much warmth as a newborn foal in… she doesn’t know, a towel or some shit. She’s never been so content in her life.

“Thank you,” she calls after Hubert’s rapidly disappearing shape.

*

Annoying as it is, Hilda does, in fact, put her mischief on hold for the following week. As soon as her time is up, she interrupts another tea time between Ferdinand and Hubert to slap a hair clip decorated with tiny carved roses onto the table.

“Ferdinand, I made something for you! I know you didn’t technically mean to grow your hair out,” she says, because he’s said it many times, “but I figure, since it is what it is now, why not have fun with it?”

Just to prove what he’s missing out on re Ferdinand’s hair, she fixes Hubert with the stinkiest look she can manage. He glares right back.

Ferdinand, meanwhile, sets his cup of tea down—pinkie out even as he does so—to instead lift the accessory with all the same delicacy. “What stellar craftsmanship—or rather, I suppose, crafts _woman_ ship,” he says with a quiet laugh. His eyes are wide and his voice somewhat distant as he examines the hair clip. Hook, line, aaand sinker. “You made this yourself, you said?”

“Sure did!” _Just for you,_ Hilda considers adding, but that would be _too_ overtly flirtatious for her tastes. She’s not trying to woo Ferdinand for real. “Do you need any help putting it on?”

“No, I have seen how Dorothea applies such accessories.” To Hilda’s glee, he slides it into his hair right then and there. It really does look nice on him—of course it does, though, because Hilda has exquisite taste. He turns back toward Hubert. “Well? How does it look?”

Hilda gets the impression Hubert is plotting her murder as they speak. “It looks… fine,” he says through his teeth, not looking directly at Ferdinand.

“If you hate it, just say so,” says Hilda, figuring that if Hubert hasn’t killed her yet, it’s all talk at this point. “I’m thick-skinned.”

This is in direct opposition to everything else she has said in the way of emotional manipulation. Still, it makes Ferdinand frown and look with puppy-dog eyes at Hubert.

“I _don’t_ hate it,” Hubert is quick to say. He glances up, but a little too high, gaze landing somewhere above Ferdinand’s head. “It looks—” his teeth audibly grind “—very nice. On you, specifically,” he adds, because he can’t let Hilda bask in the praise, can he? “The design suits your hair well.”

It takes Ferdinand a moment to respond, and when he does, it’s with a faint flush. “What did I say about keeping your compliments to writing?”

“Right, right,” says Hubert, shaking his head. “Forgive my indiscretion. It won’t happen again.”

Hilda gets the impression she’s helped more than hindered anything, but at least she’s filled her “torment Hubert” quota in the process. And, hell, the hair clip really does look nice on Ferdinand. She’s satisfied for now.

“Well, that’s all I had to say,” she says with a wink in Hubert’s direction. “Enjoy your tea!”

And, humming under her breath, she skips off toward the stables.

*

Hubert doesn’t do anything too drastic in response, and by the time their next battle rolls around, Hilda is so preoccupied that she makes a couple of decisions. Bad decisions? Yes. Sexy decisions, though? Also yes.

Whatever the case, she finds herself cornered, back against a tree and Freikugel just out of reach. Blood is leaking through her armor. She doubts she can even stand—her vision is blurred, her legs shaking as she scoots backward as far as she can, and even if she did stand there’s nowhere to go, what with the mage hovering above her—

She’s pretty sure she’s a goner and is thinking, _Well, this has been fun, but I’m sad I didn’t get to kiss Marianne at least once or send another letter to Claude_ , when a bolt of black magic strikes her opponent in the side and sends them hurtling to the side. Hilda closes her eyes and inhales through her teeth.

A shadow falls over her. Against the glare of the blood-red sky, Hilda makes out dark hair and an even darker cape: Hubert.

“Oh, shit. Just leave me here to die,” groans Hilda, flinging her arms over her face.

She’s sure Hubert considers it, but whatever sense of duty to protect the allies Her Majesty has already garnered must win out, because she finds herself being dragged to her feet with much difficulty on Hubert’s end. She’s a beefy lady, okay? Even delicate flowers have to be strong as fuck to hold themselves up. And the immense struggle of a squishy mage to pull her up to her feet is the icing on the cake. Hilda makes herself dead weight to make it that much harder on him.

She’s not expecting him to give up and drop her flat on her back again. “Either help me out here,” says Hubert in a dangerously low voice, and Hilda is delighted to hear him sound short of breath, “or you really _will_ die here.”

As tempted as Hilda is to take him up on that offer, she helps drag herself up when Hubert reaches for her a second time. He slings one of her arms around his shoulders and stumbles under her weight. So maybe he’d had a point about not being able to do the same amount of work as she could. Whatever. It doesn’t matter now.

“Everything hurts,” says Hilda in just short of a whine.

Rather than call her out on it—which is lucky, because she’s being serious—Hubert sighs. “I’m sure.”

They take a few stilted steps forward. Hilda’s weight must really be weighing Hubert down, because she’s seen him sprint faster than she would think him capable of in the past. She laughs and is disturbed when she can taste blood in her mouth. Worst of all, it makes a gross gurgling sound.

A couple of steps more, and Hilda, though her eyes are still shut, can still hear Hubert’s labored breathing. She grimaces and tries to put more weight on her own feet.

“Marianne,” calls Hubert. “A little assistance, if you please.”

Hilda’s thoughts, muddied as they’d already been, screech to a halt. Is this happening? Did she actually die? Or is this her real, ongoing life, in which Hubert von Vestra, for all intents and purposes, appears to be _wingmanning_ her? He could have called for Linhardt or even the professor instead, but—no, he chooses Marianne.

So shocking is this turn of events that Hilda doesn’t notice Marianne is reaching out to touch her until Marianne’s cold, soft hand is pressed to her forehead. Then both of Marianne’s hands settle on either side of Hilda’s face. Even if she is, in fact, dead, Hilda is going to enjoy it.

Marianne’s soft voice murmurs above her, and Hubert responds, but both of their voices are too distant and murky for Hilda to discern any real words. Put a couple of tally marks in the _dead_ column.

Healing magic sweeps over her, putting her firmly in the _nope, one-hundred percent alive_ column. Magic has always felt strange to Hilda. Maybe because she’s never been inclined toward it herself, it’s weird yet appealing, calming in an odd way. Marianne’s magic feels like a warm blanket, like a rainstorm after a drought, like a sip of tea that’s cooled to the exact perfect temperature, like—oh shit, Hilda must have lost a _lot_ of blood if she’s waxing poetic like this.

Marianne’s hands retreat. Hilda grasps one of her wrists, holding it against her cheek, and doesn’t think about how hard her own hands are shaking.

Above her, Marianne sucks in a breath. “Hilda,” she starts, voice clearer. She doesn’t say anything else, but her hand clutches tighter to Hilda.

When Hilda opens her eyes, Hubert is gone, but Marianne is there, bright and beautiful. Hilda promptly collapses into her unsuspecting arms.

*

The next time Hilda sees Hubert, which is after a period of time spent recovering in the infirmary with daily visits from Marianne, she doesn’t even ask. All she does is stare until he notices and deems it worth his time and energy to react.

“What can I say,” is his simple, flat response. “I admire your attempts at psychological warfare—terrible and _very_ obnoxious in theory, but your execution thereof was surprisingly halfway decent.”

Hilda flattens a hand to her chest. “What? Me? I don’t get what you’re saying at all—what even is ‘psychological warfare’?” she asks, sounding out each syllable like it’s the first time she’s heard it. Maybe she’s playing _too_ dumb. “Could you explain it for me, pretty please?”

“Nice try,” says Hubert. “But your games don’t work on me, as you should know by now.”

“Really?” says Hilda, pulling her best pout. That one even gets to Lysithea, who is also unfairly immune to emotional manipulation, sometimes. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.” Hubert fiddles with his quill for a moment. “However… I find myself more amenable to civil conversations between you and me now. _Civil_ conversations,” he reiterates.

“Huh.” This seems to be the closest thing to a truce Hubert will ever agree to, so Hilda decides to push her luck: “Can we paint each other’s nails and gab about horse girls now? In this case, _horse girl_ is a gender-neutral term. As everything should be.”

“Absolutely not,” says Hubert, which Hilda figures is to the gossip and nail polish part rather than the latter half of her words, which had made the ghost of a genuine smile flicker across his face. That could be wishful thinking on her behalf, though. “If you are quite done rubbernecking, I have important business to attend to now. Farewell, Hilda.”

Hilda steps aside for him to leave the room and gets a swift incline of the head for her troubles. Yeesh, he really is still stuck-up.

At least he said goodbye this time. There may be hope for him yet.

**Author's Note:**

> in the background, ferdinand and marianne are having a great time talking about horses, tea, and their own crushes. hilda eventually does get to paint hubert's nails -- he picks dark purple, despite her insistence that bright pink would be a great contrast, and they firmly do not talk about horse girls -- but all of her hard work is hidden by his gloves.
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! if you have time to spare, comments & kudos are appreciated <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


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